


Spoonful of Sugar

by Coldcase



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dont know where this is going yet, F/F, Sexual Tension, Sugar Baby Hermione, Sugar Mama Narcissa, but i hope everyone enjoys the ride, not comfortable writing her any younger, not-so-soft smut, shes gonna be 17 when the smut starts, soft smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldcase/pseuds/Coldcase
Summary: A series of unfortunate (and fortunate) events starting at the Quidditch World Cup leads Hermione to consider becoming the sugar baby of the wizarding world's wealthiest witch. Too bad she's married. And maybe a death eater. And over twice her age. And-





	1. The World Cup

If Hermione was ever pressed to say how it all started, she might say that it began during the summer before their fourth year. During the Quidditch World Cup, to be exact.

Arriving had been nearly as eventful as the actual game, in Hermione’s opinion. The youngest of the group were flung about in all directions after letting go of the stinky old boot that served as their portkey. The landing pushed the air from her lungs, but instinct had Hermione – and her boys, she noticed after a glance – back on her feet in moments.

The adults – plus Cedric – took the easier route, and Hermione barely managed to stifle an annoyed glare when they started laughing at their disgruntled expressions. Soon after that, however, they were off.

She could hear the sounds of far too many wizards performing unsupervised magic echoing from over the top of the hill. Cresting it, her eyes scanned over the large gathering that spanned the length of an enormous field. Brooms zipped overhead – one coming so close that the group had to duck to avoid it. Stands were set up in between the collection of tents and the vendors boasted knick-knacks and general merchandise for both Ireland and Bulgaria. Performers were juggling or spitting fire every 10 feet, and the crowd pushed in on all sides.

Hermione loved it.

It may have been more chaotic than what she usually preferred, but a little chaos can be good for you. Perhaps not as much as she and the boys were prone to experiencing any given school year, but enough that Hermione could feel the rush of it in her veins.

They sent up a tent, putting on their jerseys – in Ron’s case – and getting their faces painted to match their teams. Hermione considered getting hers painted green just to annoy Ron.

Before long the group was climbing the stands to find their seat. That was when everything went wrong.

“Blimey dad, how far up are we?” Ron’s voice echoed a bit, and Hermione could hear the same fatigue in his voice that was currently dragging at her ankles. She had to admit, she wasn’t expecting the stairs. But she wasn’t about to complain; Quidditch was fun to watch at times, but she was nowhere near as interested in it as the others. She just had to discretely deal with the burn in her thighs as soon as they found their seats.

“Well, put it this way,” a nasally voice cut through Mr. Weasley’s response, “If it rains, you’ll be the first to know.”

Hermione reached the top of the stairs where Ron was standing, and she joined him in looking down at the Malfoy Family. Lucius Malfoy was one of the purebloods that Hermione went out of her way to avoid. Since their third year, she’d been far more aware of the list of potential death eaters. She memorized it, not wanting to so much as see any of the individuals on it. She may not have had much of a chance in avoiding their children and the thoughtless slurs they would sling at her in the halls of Hogwarts, but she wouldn’t push her luck with those that actively tortured and killed muggle-borns like her. She was a Gryffindor, but she wasn’t stupid.

The Malfoy leader had long blonde hair, nearly white like his son’s, that draped over the shoulders of his expensive-looking cloak. He eyed the lot of them with disdain so heady Hermione could practically feel it on her skin.

His son stood beside him, looking every bit the pureblood heir. Draco had grown a bit more over the summer, but the sneer that was permanently affixed to his face faltered at the sight of her. She couldn’t help but smile a bit smugly back at him. That punch in third year seemed to instill a sense of respect into the boy for her, albeit based on fear. If all it took was a broken nose to get bigots like the Malfoys off her back, she’d start punching every pureblood she saw. It didn’t seem to stop him from commenting, however.

“Father and I are in the minister’s box.” The blond bragged, staring Harry down. “By personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge, himself!”

The older Malfoy spun around, shoving his cane into Draco’s stomach so hard even Hermione winced.

“Don’t boast, Draco.” He looked back up at them, and Hermione let the glare she was suppressing out in full force. “There’s no need with these people.”

She opened her mouth, about to make a comment she had no doubt she would regret later, but Harry’s hand on her shoulder made her swallow the words. Her friend’s expression was weary, but it spoke loudly, regardless. _They’re not worth it._ She let him turn her away from them, but they didn’t get very far before Lucius had his cane on Harry’s foot, holding him in place.

“Do enjoy yourself, won’t you?” A smarmy grin crept over his thin lips. “While you can.”

“Lucius.” Like the crack of a whip.

Standing directly behind Draco, with a slim hand on his shoulder to hold him in place, was a woman that Hermione had never seen before. Similar blond hair, though not quite as light as the men, was curled and pinned in place atop the woman’s head in an elegant twist. Blue eyes surveyed the group coldly, and Hermione felt herself shiver when they passed over her brown ones.

She could see Malfoy release Harry from her peripheral vision, but she didn’t look away. She took in the fitted robe, deep green with accents in silver and black that somehow highlighted her eyes even further. It draped over a slender body and fell away at the floor. She’d never seen the allure in Slytherin colors before.

She knew that the boys were turning back to the stairs, already starting their ascent once more, but she remained behind, eyes locked on the woman that must have been Mrs. Malfoy.

Draco and Lucius Malfoy turned away, heading for the Minister’s Box, and Mrs. Malfoy followed close behind. Hermione followed their example and made her way toward her group.

She managed to climb several stairs before looking back over her shoulder, and at that moment ice-blue met warm-brown once more. She didn’t know what the other woman must have seen on her face, but Hermione found herself caught under that heavy gaze. She felt almost trapped, like a mouse that was still trying to get to the cheese that was just under its nose despite that pressure holding it down. Those eyes didn’t change, but they dragged over her almost clinically before leaving her again.

When she felt like she could breathe, Hermione shook her head with a furrowed brow before taking the steps two at a time to catch up.

X

Hermione only remembered scattered bits of the game. She knew that Bulgaria had won, that Victor Krum had caught the snitch, but her mind was far from the wizards and witches zooming about the field. It felt like her entire body was in a haze.

It wasn’t until the death eaters attacked that she regained the clarity that had escaped her usually sharp mind.

She ran, Ron and Harry’s hands in each of hers. At some point another wizard rushed into them, bumping into Hermione so hard she went sprawling across the dirt. She rolled towards the tents on her left, avoiding the feet that had no problem trampling her. When she’d finally gotten back to her feet, her boys were nowhere in sight.

Hermione sprinted between tents, leaping over burning bits of stalls that had been collapsed to the ground under the assault. She managed to avoid any death eaters until she reached the edge of the camp. But that was when her luck ran out.

A trio of death eaters was sending jets of red light out toward the crowd, but when they caught sight of Hermione, they turned to her. She could practically feel the glee radiating off the leader of the trio as they hunted the muggle-born friend of the boy-who-lived, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of catching her.

She bolted for the trees, only making it around the corner of a tent before her progress was abruptly halted. She ran straight into another person, sending them both crashing to the ground. Without even looking, she jumped back up to her feet, catching the wrist of the other person in her hand before sprinting toward the trees again, dragging her new companion behind her.

Once they passed the tree-line and had put some distance between them and the death eaters, Hermione turned back. Wide blue eyes stared at her incredulously as Mrs. Malfoy panted from exertion. Hermione gaped back at the older woman. She hadn’t even checked to see if the person she had grabbed had _been a death eater._ Or the wife of one, anyway.

The snap of a twig behind her had Hermione pulling on Mrs. Malfoy’s wrist once more, leveraging her backward into the trunk of a large tree. She pressed her there, one of her hands pressing against her mouth while the other clutched at her wand with white knuckles. Hermione glared into wide eyes, desperately trying to convey the need to be quiet.

She whispered under her breath, “Look, I know you probably have issues just being this close to me, but how about you wait until after the murderous death eaters leave before you spit on me.” Mrs. Malfoy’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline, but Hermione was too busy peeking around the side of the tree to pay much attention to it. She felt a tapping on the back of her hand and turned her attention back to the woman she had pressed against a tree. Mrs. Malfoy was gesturing to the hand Hermione had over her mouth pointedly, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait. I can’t risk you yelling for them. I don’t plan on dying tonight.”

She felt a bit of built-up pressure under her hand and realized that the older woman had sighed. She pressed her lips together to smother a smile, but the unimpressed look the blonde leveled at her told her the pureblood had caught it.

Aggressive murmuring broke the silence, and Hermine finally wrenched her eyes from the magnetic ones in front of her. She could hear the death eaters, at least three of them so she assumed they were the same ones that had been chasing her, but she couldn’t see them. The trees grew thick the further in she’d run, which provided excellent cover for her but left her wondering where her enemy stood.

When the glint of metal of a mask finally came into sight, Hermione tensed. She leaned forward, all her focus on the wizards that stomped through the forest. The leader of the group was the least careful where he walked and nearly threw a tantrum when his foot caught on an upturned root.

“Enough, Lestrange.”

She felt more than saw Mrs. Malfoy go still against her. Her mind raced for a reason before she remembered what she’d read in the library just the year before in a book called _The Most Ancient and Noble Houses._ The Lestrange family were certainly on that list, but the Black family was the more prominent of the two, and the lines had crossed rather recently in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange née Black.

_Her sister._

Hermione took a step forward, using her body to pin the older woman to the tree and holding her hand just a bit more firmly over her mouth.

“Don’t,” she whispered, soft. It was so quiet that she doubted the blonde would have heard her if she hadn’t spoken against her ear. A shuddering breath left her.

“I nearly _had her_! Why did you stop me?!” The ‘leader’ spoke in an angry tone, though it was decidedly male. Hermione suspected he was less the leader and more the one that ran ahead.

“That wasn’t our mission! We should head back to the tents with the others.”

“We could have caught the boy’s mudblood! The Dark Lord would have honored us!”

“Or punished us for leaving our post and not completing the mission he entrusted to us. Did you want to be the one to explain why we disobeyed his orders?”

The blonde sagged back against the tree, relaxing now that she knew her sister wasn’t near. Hermione moved with her, as close as they were, and their bodies practically molded together as she filled the space the pureblood had vacated. Each halting breath she took pushed against the other woman, and she could feel each inhale the blonde took as if it were her own.

In trying to assure her continued survival, Hermione hadn’t taken much note of her positioning, but the longer she stood there, the more aware she became of both of their bodies.

Her body was flush against the older woman, thighs pressed against each other with one of Hermione’s own in between the purebloods from when she’d stepped into her space. Her hand wasn’t pressing hard against the mouth under it, resting gently over parted lips now that there was less of a chance the other woman would alert the death eaters to their position.

She could feel the rush of air over the back of her knuckles from where the woman exhaled through her nose, but she remained overly aware of the lips under her palm. The woman must use chapstick every hour with how soft they felt. Or maybe she knew of some kind of spell that kept them that way. Hermione wouldn’t have asked even if they weren’t in their current predicament.

The older woman seemed to become aware of their positions only moments after Hermione. She felt the tension that had just left the woman return with a passion. Every line of Mrs. Malfoy’s body went taught against her – straining to be away from her no doubt.

She was probably disgusted at being so close with a muggle-born. Hermione’s jaw clenched at the thought, and she moved without thinking.

She may have been given the choice to enter Ravenclaw due to her need to learn, but Hermione had no doubt she belonged in Gryffindor, if only because of moments like these when her impulsiveness overrules rational thought.

She nudged even closer to the woman, filling every empty spot with her own body. If the woman wanted to be away from the disgusting _mudblood_, she’d have to damn well shove her.

Hermione’s head dropped against the woman’s shoulder; cheek pressed against a warm neck. Her thigh that had been squeezed between the pureblood’s pushed higher and closer until her hip met flesh covered in silk.

A hand grabbed at her back, and she couldn’t believe how thoughtless she’d been. She hadn’t even disarmed the woman! She needn’t have feared, however, since the hand didn’t try and push her away – perhaps not willing to risk Hermione cursing her if they were to get caught. Instead, it clutched at the back of her shirt, just under her shoulder blade.

She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, turning her head a bit into blonde’s neck. A shudder shook the pureblood, but that was the only sign she gave that Hermione’s presence was causing her distress. Apart from the rush of air that warmed Hermione’s knuckles.

“Fine.”

The reply startled Hermione from her thoughts, and she shifted to get another view of the death eaters. The move jostled her thigh a bit, and Mrs. Malfoy tensed even further against her. She let out a sound, muffled as it was against her hand, that had Hermione’s hair standing on end. She could feel the vibration in her own chest as it left the other woman’s and wondered at the tight feeling that took hold on her stomach.

She must be hungry. She hadn’t eaten since before the game.

She turned her attention to the death eaters; they moved slowly, Lestrange dragging his feet behind him like a child, and Hermione knew she’d have to wait a few more minutes before the coast would be clear.

She tried to keep her focus on her surroundings during that time, but it inevitably shifted to the woman she still had pressed against a tree. She was still against her, though her chest was moving rapidly against Hermione’s own. She was, no doubt, just waiting until the moment she could shove the muggle-born away from her and spout some nonsense about being her ‘superior’. Hermione didn’t think Lucius was the only source that led to Draco’s bigotry. When she tilted her head back to finally get a look at the woman’s face, it only confirmed what she thought.

Mrs. Malfoy had her head tilted back against the tree, putting her as far away from Hermione as she could possibly get. Her expression was strained to the point that it looked like she was in pain just from being close to her. Her eyes matched.

The blue of her irises looked darker now that the sun had fled, and her pupils expanded as she stared down at Hermione.

Hermione knew that the woman was just angry at her. She knew that she was exactly what she and her whole family fought against so fervently, but she couldn’t help but get lost in those eyes once more. She couldn’t help it. She’d never seen eyes so blue in her life, and the intensity of the gaze on her only made it more difficult to look away.

It was with a halting hesitance that Hermione lowered her hand from over the other woman’s mouth. She peeled herself off the pureblood slowly, fighting against the strange need her body had to remain where it was.

When there were a few inches between the two of them, she expected the other woman to speak. Maybe she’d say something arrogant like her son, or something more subtle that would pull on Hermione’s mind no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise.

But the woman simply stared at her under low lids, her lips parted and chest heaving as Hermione took a single step back.

She memorized the scene before her for reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend, and then, when the pureblood finally opened her mouth to speak, Hermione fled.


	2. Compelled

As soon as the Tri-wizard tournament was announced, Hermione barely had time to think of anything else. Harry was in mortal danger. _Again._ And she needed to be there for him since Ron had lost whatever sense he had left and accused Harry of putting his name in the goblet.

As if Harry wanted more glory. He’d had enough of it by the end of his first year.

She’d spent most of the year in the library searching for solutions to the challenges and the rest of it tiptoeing around her friends, hoping they’d see reason.

She’d barely thought about what happened at the World Cup.

She’d found Ron with the rest of his family. It had taken a little while longer to find Harry, eventually discovering him under fire from a Death Eater. After dealing with the threat, the trio had followed Mr. Weasley back to the burrow with little fanfare. All of the kids were quiet, but Hermione knew the reason for her silence was different than the rest.

She shook her head, best not overthink it.

It was roughly halfway through the year that she’d received the letter from her parents.

Their practice, usually so stable, was going under. It instilled a kind of panic in her that Hermione had never felt before.

Her parents had never been rich, but they’d never had to worry about money the way the Weasley’s did. She’d never had to think much about it. Now, however, she couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it.

Her parents had written her that she’d need to be more careful with her spending. She wasn’t usually someone who spent money on anything other than the necessities, but with the way things were going she doubted she’d even be able to afford a new book when they went to Hogsmeade that weekend.

She’d written back letting them know that she’d avoid wasting any money. The next letter made it clear that she should avoid spending it altogether when she could.

Heading to Hogsmeade that weekend felt like a test. With Harry and a newly ‘reformed’ Ron accompanying her, Hermione wandered the small town with a slower pace than usual. Even Ron took notice.

“Blimey, ‘Mione, can you walk any slower?”

She snapped, “I wasn’t aware we had a set destination, Ronald. Please, lead the way.”

If there was one thing Ron understood, it was when he’d pressed a button he shouldn’t have. The redhead’s eyes widened at her tone before he did, in fact, take the lead. Harry sent her a questioning look but otherwise didn’t comment as they trailed behind Ron toward Honeyduke’s. Harry grabbed one of everything that looked appetizing while Ron pouted at some Chocoballs until his friend snuck them into his load before heading to the register. Hermione forced herself not to look too long at any of the sweets for too long; Harry was being far too observant today and she didn’t want him asking any questions.

The three left the shop, Hermione in the lead and followed by two boys that already had chocolate smeared across their mouths. Ron hadn’t waited until they left the store to open his Chocoballs.

The next stop was, inevitably, Zonko’s Joke Shop. They ran into the twins, quite literally, and ended up with a few dung-bombs in their pockets before they left. Hermione even found a small package of frog-spawn soap in the depths of her robes that she _knew_ Fred had placed there. She tried not to let a smirk show on her face. She already had a plan for it, and it involved a pesky Slytherin that hung around Draco more often than not. She just had to make sure she didn’t get caught. Harry would probably lend her his cloak, or even be willing to go with her if she told him what she needed it for. Fred would approve.

While she eyed Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop longingly, Hermione let herself be dragged to their last stop of the night, The Three Broomsticks.

The trio grabbed a table near the back, away from prying eyes and ears. They didn’t have anything nefarious planned – at least not currently – but the possibility was always on the table. It was better to be cautious.

Madam Rosmerta approached the table, “What’ll it be, then?”

“Butterbeer, please,” Harry ordered.

Ron nodded to their bespectacled friend, “Same for me.”

When Rosmerta turned to her, Hermione cursed in her head. She’d like nothing more than a warm butterbeer after all the stress the Triwizard Championship was heaping on her, but her empty purse begged to differ.

“None for me this time, thanks,” Hermione waved her hand. Rosmerta nodded, heading back to the bar. Turning back to the table, Hermione pointedly ignored Ron’s confusion. “So, hypothetically, who do you think would win the Championship if Harry weren’t forced to compete?”

Ron’s eyes immediately lit up. He was always willing to talk competition, no matter the sport. The interest in the outcome must have been the Weasley in him – it reminded her of the same glint the twins got in their eyes when they made a bet.

One look at Harry showed that he was less convinced in her nonchalance, but he was more than willing to participate in a game of ‘What If Harry’s Life Were Normal?’

The trio agreed that they’d have supported Cedric as the Hogwarts Champion, but Ron was adamant that Viktor Krum, the champion she’d seen loitering around the library more recently, would have emerged victorious – if Harry weren’t obviously going to win. Harry was of the mind that the Beauxbatons Champion, Fleur Delacour, had far more up her sleeve than everyone expected. Hermione agreed with him; underestimating an opponent just because she’s pretty has never worked out for anyone.

She was in the middle of explaining the rigorous academic program that Beauxbatons boasted when the door swung open, revealing Draco Malfoy and, surprisingly, Mrs. Malfoy. She wasn’t the only one to notice.

“What are _they_ doing here?” Ron’s tone turned dark, nearly identical to the one he’d used with Harry only a few weeks prior when he’d thought his friend had ‘betrayed’ him.

“Honestly, Ronald,” Hermione floundered, not wanting to show how intensely aware she was of the Malfoy matriarch, “These are called ‘family weekends’. You could invite your parents if you wanted.”

The redhead turned to her, dubious, “Why don’t you invite _yours_, then?”

“You’re right, Ron.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why _don’t_ I invite my muggle parents to a breeding ground of bigotry and muggle-hating on the off chance that no one would comment?”

Draco Malfoy took that moment to shine.

“So, you agree that muggles, and similar _folk_, should stay far away from wizarding establishments?” The blond cut in, a sneer on his face. His mother was still by the bar, speaking in quiet tones to Rosmerta after sending her son to find them a table.

“Piss _off_, ferret.” Ron had evidently decided arguing with Hermione wasn’t worth the effort when a perfectly good target was presenting himself to them.

“Make me, weasel.”

“Now that we’ve established that you’re both members of the Mustelidae Family, can you leave us be? We’d like to get back to our drinks.” Hermione interjected, not wanting to deal with two hotheaded boys trying to one-up each other with the headache that was currently forming in her temples.

“What? You don’t even have a drink.” Draco looked confused, “And I’m a Malfoy, not a Mustylid.”

“No, that’s—” Ron looked equally confused, and Hermione sighed. “Nevermind. Have a nice night, Malfoy.”

Draco scoffed, but he stalked off toward his own table, not too far away from their own. Wanting to eavesdrop, most likely.

“Prat,” Ron muttered, with Harry giving a nod of agreement. Then, the redhead turned questioning eyes on her. “Why didn’t you get a drink, ‘Mione?”

“I—” Hermione didn’t have an excuse prepared, but she was nothing if not adaptable. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the chance to try, since Harry cut in.

“I was going to ask, earlier.” Green eyes scanned over her face. “You didn’t get anything at Honeyduke’s either. And we passed Scrivenshaft's without so much as a word from you.”

“Not usual, that,” Ron added.

“I can easily withstand the urge to enter a _quill shop_ if I so chose.” Hermione defended.

“You’ve never _so chosen_ before.” Harry pointed out, and Hermione snapped her jaw shut, caught.

“Well…I…” She stammered, unable to think under the measuring stares of her best friends. “I just…” Her shoulder’s slumped. “I can’t afford to.”

“What?” Harry looked confused. “I’ve watched you buy six quills in one go because ‘what if the first one breaks, and what if I need one that writes without an inkwell, and what if—'”

“Yes, thank you, Harry, for outlining my irresponsible spending habits.” Her head fell to the table in defeat. Had she looked up, she might have noticed a certain witch walking by their table on her way to her son, eyes lingering on the muggle-born that had quite rudely shoved her into a tree. “My parent’s – I told you they were dentists – have been having some…_difficulty_ lately. Financially. And I just don’t think I’ll be able to afford much. At least not for a while.”

“Well,” Ron looked uncomfortable and a bit confused – he might still not understand the concept of dentists – but understanding in a way that made Hermione uncomfortable, “I’ll get you a butterbeer.”

“No!” Hermione’s head shot up. “No, thank you Ron, but I’m not comfortable taking any money from you. I know your family has its own troubles with it.”

“_My_ family isn’t.” Harry jerked his chin up. “I’ll get you one.”

“I’m not asking for money, Harry,” Hermione breathed out, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Really.”

Both boys looked like they didn’t want to drop it, but Harry nudged Ron when the redhead looked like he was about to open his mouth and argue and they let it go.

For now, at least. The relapsed back to their earlier discussion, with Cedric’s skills more reasonably held up to the standard that the other champions had displayed. The conversation stood as both a casual ‘what-if’ and a good dissection of the different champions’ skills. If Harry had to compete against them, he might as well be as informed as possible.

It was only an hour later that a fresh butterbeer was placed in front of her by Rosmerta. While she had no qualms about inhaling the first few sips, Hermione glared down at her friends, wondering when they’d had the time to order the cup without her noticing.

“Don’t look at me!” Ron held up his hands. “Got a mean glare, ‘Mione.”

She turned it on her other friend, “Harry, as much as I appreciate—”

“Wasn’t me either.” The boy looked as confused as she was. “I know better than to go against you, Hermione.”

A wrinkle formed between her eyes, “Then, who…”

She cast her vision around the pub. There were more patrons than usual at the later hour. Students wearing all colors flooded the tables, and a few older wizards sat at the bar. They spoke loudly and with slurred words, so Hermione crossed them off the list. Dean and Seamus were taking up the corner opposite the ones the trio had taken, but when Hermione waved over at them, they smiled cheerfully without any recognition. Not them either, then.

Without conscious effort, Hermione’s eyes slid toward another table not too far from theirs as if pulled. Draco Malfoy was gesturing wildly, and when Hermione strained to hear him over the noise in the pub she could make out an incredibly embellished retelling of the last Quidditch match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. He didn’t hold her attention for long, however.

Narcissa Malfoy – she had looked up her first name after the World Cup for practical reasons – was sitting with her back straight in the dingy booth that her son had occupied. Her shoulders were held back like she was attending a ball instead of a stale-smelling pub filled with students, and the outfit she wore was no doubt losing value with every moment she remained seated. Her hair was once again pinned up without a single strand out of place, making her look like some photoshopped model in those magazines her mother always bought.

And her eyes – those cold blue eyes that had grown so dark as they hid from the Death Eaters – were entirely focused on Hermione.

She sucked in a startled breath, ducking her head back down.

She could feel those eyes still burning into her – full of heat despite the icy nature of them. There was no way Narcissa Malfoy had bought her a drink. Hermione couldn’t even fathom it. After years of her son’s bigotry pushing Hermione to the edge and their run-in at the World Cup, the other had to have hated her by now.

Another glance back up, and Hermione felt lost.

The blonde was still staring at her, but she switched her stare from Hermione to her son whenever Draco looked at his mother. During those times when their gazes locked, the older woman would let just the hint of a smirk pull at her lips. Hermione felt a rush of heat crawl up her neck and stain her face red.

“’Mione?” She heard Ron call for her, but she waved him away without looking, hoping he’d go back to his conversation with Harry instead of noticing where all of Hermione’s attention was at the moment.

She managed to pull her eyes away from the magnetic force that captured her attention so easily, but it felt like an uphill battle. Every moment that she talked to Harry and Ron, smiling as easily as she could manage while pretending she didn’t feel that weight on the side of her face, she was resisting the urge to return that stare. It felt almost like a compulsion, and Hermione made a note to check for any spells that made be influencing her. It would be just like a pureblood to mess with her mind by charming her without her noticing.

The drink!

Hermione looked into the warm brown liquid that swirled within her cup. The blonde must’ve put something in it. She shook her head with a sigh; Rosmerta was the only one who handled the drinks, and she doubted the kind woman would allow for her drinks to be used in that way.

What was it then that was making her so aware of the older woman?

She felt a brush of cloth against her side suddenly, and a warm hand trailing across the back of her own hand for only a split second, but it felt like lightning had struck her.

While she’d been searching her drink, the Malfoys had decided to leave the pub for the night, and when Narcissa walked by the drapery that hid her hands in her cloak concealed the brush of skin. Hermione couldn’t help but react, however, and her knee jolted up so fast it hit the table. A sharp pain throbbed in her kneecap, but Hermione barely paid attention to that or her friends asking her if she was okay.

“I’m fine. I just thought I saw a rat. After third year, I wouldn’t call my reaction too extreme.” She explained, swallowing against the knot in her throat.

Ron nodded solemnly, his already pale face losing a shade of color as he was reminded of ‘the Scabbers Incident’.

Hermione looked over her shoulder at the door, trying to be discreet, but was greeted to the swish of the Malfoy matriarch’s cloak as she exited the Three Broomsticks behind her son.

X

After the end of fourth year, things changed.

The world knew about the rise of Voldemort, though so many people denied it that it was treated like some kind of secret only to be spoken of in dark corners or after too many glasses of firewhiskey.

She was glad that Harry was alright, but guilt ate at her when she felt only relief that her friend had been spared when Cedric Diggory was returned to his father already cold.

With the weight of the public gaze on her, Dumbledore’s expectations on her shoulders, and her parent’s losing what little they had left of their practice, Hermione felt like she was drowning.

She needed something to distract from all of the terrible things that were happening, if only for a moment. Usually, she would turn to books. Her main outlet for frustration soon fled along with her parent’s money.

She couldn’t even afford the textbooks for the next school year.

It was during the annual shopping trip to Diagon Alley with the Weasleys that this felt shoved in her face more than ever. She followed behind a gaggle of redheads through the streets, watching them purchase their school supplies and waving them off when they asked about her own. She told them she’d already bought them, but she could tell that neither of her boys believed it.

Harry snuck close to her as they trailed behind the group towards Flourish and Blotts and told her they could share his supplies since they were likely to partner up for classes anyway. Ron and Harry were usually partners, but the redhead agreed that Neville needed a Gryffindor partner after the Slytherin’s nearly poisoned him in potions.

If was a kind gesture, but it did little to lift her spirits.

Especially when they entered the bookstore. Flourish and Blotts had long been Hermione’s favorite stop in the alley, and there wasn’t a year that went by that Hermione didn’t feel the need to press herself against the glass so she could see the leaning towers of books that lay inside. She wandered from stack to stack, picking up any book she found interesting and reading small sections before putting it back. She didn’t want the owner of the shop to yell at her again.

While the Weasley’s checked out, Hermione wandered further back in the stacks, perusing the less known books that weren’t on display as often. There was always a treasure hidden among the trash – and there was certainly trash.

She skimmed over a book covering advanced transfiguration theories, ignoring Harry as he managed to find Draco – they seem to seek each other out with great success every year they go shopping – and started a verbal fight in the middle of the shop. She sighed, closing the book and putting it back on the shelf with a mournful look.

Hermione’s shoulders drooped as she turned away from a treasure she would have bought the previous year. Perhaps she could let Harry buy just this one book for her. It wasn’t like it would be too expensive, covered in a film of dust and hidden near the back of the shop. She could probably even coerce the shopkeeper into giving her a loyalty discount or something.

Turning directly into a soft body jolted her from her musings.

She backed up, apologies already on her tongue.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was…” she trailed off.

In front of her, less than a foot away, stood Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione swallowed, “Oh, Mrs. Malfoy. I didn’t see you there.”

Narcissa Malfoy raised a single brow at her, eye flickering toward the book Hermione had placed back on the shelf before returning to her own. One slim hand reached out toward Hermione. She wanted to do something, even flinch away from the pureblood, but her feet wouldn’t move. With her eyes once more trapped in that blue gaze, Hermione barely noticed as the hand slid past her toward the shelf, grabbing the book she had abandoned and tucking it back under the arm of the blonde.

With another small tug at the corner of her lips, the older woman let her eyes slide down Hermione, making her shiver under the intensity, before Mrs. Malfoy turned on her heel and marched back toward the front of the shop.

Not marched. Floated maybe. Strut. Hermione couldn’t call the elegant glide the woman possessed a march.

Coming back to herself the moment the woman was out of view, Hermione snapped her jaw shut.

_How long has my mouth been open? Did she see? She must think me daft._

An embarrassed blush took her over, and Hermione stomped back toward her friends. Harry had finally finished finding his books, and he made his way to the counter with Hermione directly behind him. After he finished checking them out, the shopkeeper turned to Hermione.

“Would you like your books in a bag?” He asked in that same monotone as always.

“My what?” Hermione asked, “No, I don’t have any books. These are Harry’s.” She gestured to her friend who was already packing up his books into the bag that had been supplied and was waiting for Hermione.

“Not his books, miss, yours.”

“I didn’t purchase any books.” She repeated.

The shopkeeper sighed, picking up a large stack of books and placing them in a bag before shoving the bag toward Hermione, who caught it on instinct, and turning to the next customer.

Hermione was more than a little confused, but she wasn’t one to turn down free books. She adjusted her grip on the bag before following after Harry, shrugging when he gave the bag a questioning glance.

It was only after they’d returned to the Burrow that Hermione let herself check the contents. One after one she pulled out the required textbooks for the next year, each book rocketing her confusion up a notch. The last book in the bunch made her pause.

It was the book on advanced transfiguration theories she’d been fawning over earlier.

The pieces came together.

Once more, Narcissa Malfoy had surprised her. She didn’t understand the witch’s kindness, though she doubted kindness was the only motivator. The older woman was becoming a mystery to Hermione, and Hermione was always terrible at letting mysteries remain.

She needed to figure out the pureblood’s motive behind this.

It would seem that Hermione had found her distraction.


	3. Malfoy Manor

She’d made next to no progress in figuring out the enigma that was Narcissa Malfoy.

Fifth-year had started roughly. Her parents hadn’t been able to keep up with the mortgage on their home and were forced to move in with her Aunt on her mother’s side. She went with them for a while but ended up at Number 12, Grimmauld Place at the behest of Albus Dumbledore.

Her parents weren’t happy to see her go, but they seemed relieved that she wouldn’t have to share the burden they were now shouldering.

Then Harry had shown up after being attacked by a dementor near his own home! How did it even get that far from Azkaban? Was someone sending dementors after her friend?

They’d managed to sort out the mess enough that Harry’s expulsion was reversed, but arriving at Hogwarts just to be greeted by that _toad_ wasn’t much of a step up.

Defense against the Dark Arts turned into a joke. Hermione was left furious that anyone would undermine her education in such a manner. Thus formed Dumbledore’s Army – with a surprising addition.

Draco Malfoy.

There had nearly been a riot when the Slytherin joined their ranks, but a harsh reprimand from Harry quieted the dissenters. Hermione didn’t know what caused the change between the two, but she caught Harry placing a comforting hand on Draco’s shoulder after the loudest of the protesters had dispersed.

She gave her friend a look, eyes pointedly drifting over his point of contact with the pureblood, but Harry had shrugged and mouthed, ‘later’.

All in all, she’d had little time to worry over Narcissa Malfoy.

That was until an opportunity presented itself.

“Hermione, I know this is a lot to ask for considering how he’s treated us – you especially – over the years,” He lowered his voice, “but the Order won’t let me go without some kind of ‘supervision’.” He made a face at the word, and Hermione would have voiced her agreement that Harry had survived worse conditions without the Order’s help had she not been so entirely thrown by the request.

“You…you want me to spend winter break at the Malfoy Manor.” She parroted.

“With me. Yes.” He nodded, pushing past the obvious confusion Hermione knew he could glean from her demeanor.

“What exactly happened between you and Draco, Harry?”

Harry winced, biting the inside of his cheek as he surveyed his friend.

“This isn’t – I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone, Hermione. It’s not what you think,” He rushed the last words out, a hint of a blush on his cheeks, “But I said I’d come home with him for break, and I already told the Weasley’s, so it’s practically taken care of, except…”

“Except for your ‘chaperone.’”

“Supervisor.” Harry corrected.

“Right.” Hermione nodded. “You want to spend winter break at the home of a family of notorious Death Eaters after informing the world of their master’s return. You don’t see the possible dangers in that?”

Harry sighed, “I’ve gone over all of this, Hermione. I know it sounds strange and maybe a bit mad—”

“_Maybe,”_ Hermione snorted.

“—But,” Harry continued, “I’m doing it. And I’d like your support in this.”

“Playing the support card, as if I could refuse.” Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Sorry.” Harry smiled, not looking the least bit apologetic. “So, you’ll come?”

“Yeah.” Hermione’s mind was already racing. This would be the perfect opportunity to gather more information on Narcissa Malfoy – in her own home – so she wasn’t going to refuse in the first place. She wasn’t thrilled about being surrounded by Death Eater’s during the holiday, but she knew her friend would have her back, should any incidents arise. “Though I am curious; why not ask Ron to go with you?”

Harry shuffled his feet, “I did.”

“And?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. When no answer was forthcoming, her brow knit together in concern. “He didn’t take it well, did he?”

“You know Ron.” Harry shrugged. “He’ll come around.”

Hermione wished her hot-tempered friend didn’t always have to ‘come around’, but she knew Harry was right. Once Ron had gotten his temper tantrum out of his system, he’d be back by their sides like always. It was a patience game with him.

Whatever the case, it would seem that Hermione had just secured a ticket into the lion’s den – or snake’s den, rather.

She hoped it wasn’t one-way.

X

Arriving at Malfoy Manor was a quiet affair.

Draco had started talking to her a bit during the weeks leading up to the break, and Hermione found him to be a great and intellectual conversationalist. Until he slipped and said something that set off her Gryffindor pride.

The two had developed a repartee of sorts. Draco would make a snide comment about some student or other, usually not a Gryffindor whilst he was speaking with Hermione, and the Gryffindor would respond with a sarcastic wit that always seemed to take the pureblood by surprise. She supposed his view of her hadn’t been the best up until that point, but they both managed to get around their pre-conceived spite of each other after too long. By the time they were standing in front of the floo, Hermione would even consider the boy a friend – albeit a cautiously made one.

Two-thirds of the golden trio stood back as their newly acquired friend took his place amongst the soot in the fireplace.

“Malfoy Manor.” Spoken clearly, then a rush of green flame. When the fire cleared, Draco was gone.

Hermione turned to Harry, “We’re sure this is a good idea?”

“Draco’s _changed_, Hermione. You’ve spoken to him! He’s not perfect, but he’s trying—”

“No,” Hermione interrupted, shaking her head, “Not him. Well, we still have quite a few things we need to discuss with him before all bygones are left to rest.” A pointed look, which Harry reluctantly nodded in agreement with. “But I was talking about the possible Death Eaters whose house we will be living in for nearly a month.”

Harry’s green eyes grew stormy, “_Lucius Malfoy_,” he spat the name like a curse, “will not be troubling us. I will make sure of that. If he so much as says one thing to you, tell me.”

“Because you suddenly have sway with Lucius Malfoy?” She took in her friend’s suddenly nervous posture. “He has something to do with why we’re spending break at their house, doesn’t he?”

“Hermione.” Harry’s voice was low. “Please, don’t ask.”

She scanned his face, finding a caution rarely placed upon impulsive features. Whatever this was, it was bothering Harry more than he let on. She couldn’t let him do it alone.

She nodded, “Alright. What about Narcissa Malfoy, then?”

Harry’s nose scrunched up, “Mrs. Malfoy? I doubt she’ll give us any trouble. Draco hasn’t said anything bad about her.”

“But he’s had bad things to say about his father?” She questioned.

Harry paled, “Hermione…”

“Right.” She pushed on, not wanting to drive her friend into a corner more than she already had. She had a sneaking suspicion what this was about, and it curled in her belly like dread. “You first, then.” She gestured to the fireplace.

With another long look, her friend was gone.

Then it was Hermione’s turn.

She swallowed. Her nerves had been frayed since Harry had suggested this little endeavor, and they were getting worse by the minute. Something about the Malfoy matriarch made her stomach turn over in knots, and she was about to spend a month in her presence. Hermione had made sure to bring along all of her textbooks to keep her occupied. She had even asked permission from Professor McGonagall to check a few books out from the library. She had ample excuses to be alone, should she need them.

She held her breath as she gathered a handful of floo powder and stepped gingerly into the fireplace.

“Now or never,” She whispered, “Malfoy Manor!”

Her vision was replaced with swirling green before she was practically hurled through an expensive looking fireplace. She stumbled, catching herself on the mantle.

“Here I thought you’d lost your Gryffindor courage.” Draco’s voice, once so headache-inducing, made her chuckle.

“Did I make you wait long, your highness?” She brushed herself off then looked up.

“A bit, actually.” Draco returned her crooked smile.

Draco ushered them out of what he called the ‘drawing room’ into a large open space with a grand staircase leading to the upper floors.

“I’ll just show you both your rooms, then we can head to dinner. It should be ready soon.” The blonde called back over his shoulder.

Up the staircase and in the ‘west wing’, the third door on the left was definitely Draco’s room. It was wide open, and Hermione saw so much green she almost wanted to hurl. There was even a large Slytherin banner hanging on the farthest wall. She chuckled lowly, catching Draco rolling his eyes at her.

Directly next to Draco’s room was Harry’s.

There was still quite a bit of green in what must’ve been one of several fully furnished guest rooms, but Hermione caught hints of gold and even some Gryffindor red peeking out from behind the curtains that surrounded the four-poster bed. Harry shoved his trunk up against the side of it.

Hermione’s room was apparently in the ‘east wing’.

Draco apologized, “The other rooms in the west wing are all full of dust and…things that I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be a bedmate with.” The boy winced subtly. “But the rooms in the east wing are even bigger than the west, so it’s a bit like an upgrade if you think about it.”

Harry nudged her shoulder as they traveled further down the hallway.

“You can come sleep in my room if you want.” The boy whispered.

It was quiet, but Hermione saw Draco twitch.

“Thanks Harry, but I’m sure I’ll manage the distance. If it starts to bother me, I’ll just snuggle up with Draco.” Hermione kept her face blank as the boy in question turned wide eyes to her. It only lasted a few seconds before a rather familiar unimpressed expression took over.

“You wish, Granger.”

“I believe I just made it clear that I do, Draco.” Hermione teased.

She was glad that the Slytherin had turned out to be a friend in disguise. Speaking with him brought out a side of Hermione she didn’t know she had. She was easier to tease, and her wit didn’t have to be…she wouldn’t say dumbed down but muted a bit the way it had to be around Ron at times.

She was also getting a bit too comfortable pushing at people. Something she could lay entirely on Draco’s shoulders. Thankfully, it had yet to get her into too much trouble.

Whatever the case, the blonde seemed equally surprised yet grateful for the friend he found in the muggle-born.

Now she just had to convince him about S.P.E.W.

“This is where you’ll be staying, Granger.” Draco opened a large wooden door.

Hermione took one look and nearly gasped.

The room was as ornate as one she could imagine from some palace. The bed was big enough for ten people, and the sheets were so soft Hermione nearly gave up and skipped dinner to get a head-start on sleeping that night. A large bookcase lined one of the walls, and she made herself pass by it without too much fanfare or she knew she’d be perusing the shelves for hours.

There was a door attached to her room that opened up to a large bathroom with a traditional style – all dark woods and warm colors. The bathtub sitting in the center of it was gigantic, and Hermione spotted runes on the side that kept water heated and others for a cooler temperature.

“Merlin, you guys are_ rich-_rich.” She breathed.

A muffled laugh that was quickly cut off came from behind her.

“Had I been aware of the improved guest list, I’d have arranged more comfortable living quarters.” A new voice cut through her amazement.

Hermione whirled around to find Narcissa at the entrance to the bathroom with a guilty-looking Harry behind her. He mouthed ‘sorry’.

This having been the second time she’d ever heard the woman speak, Hermione felt the breath rush out of her at the soft tone – so different from the cold harshness she’d heard before.

“I-No!” Hermione stuttered, “I mean, this is incredible. That wasn’t a complaint, sorry.”

She felt another blush rise up and forced it down through sheer will.

“Well,” Narcissa’s smile was small and almost unnoticeable, but Hermione was paying very close attention, “As long as it is satisfactory. Dinner is ready and shall be served shortly.” She turned to Draco, giving him a significant look that Hermione couldn’t decipher but caused the boy to duck his head a fraction. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone.

When Hermione was certain the older woman was no longer within hearing range, she turned to Draco.

“Is…Is she upset that I’m here?” She didn’t know if she wanted to hear the answer.

“No.” Draco shook his head ruefully. “Mother simply doesn’t like being taken off-guard.” Hermione could attest to that. “I should have told her you would be coming as well. I’d only mentioned Harry.”

“Oh.” Hermione nodded, feigning nonchalance. “So, it isn’t about me…you know, being a muggle-born?”

“What?” The blonde’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows shot up. “No! Hermione my mother has never been one to preach about blood purity. You can blame my _actions_ during the recent school years on the teachings of my father and the influence of my peers. Most pureblood children aren’t born with those ideals. It’s forced into their heads from an early age, so most Slytherin’s tend to be a bit…misinformed.”

“Right.” As interesting as it was to know, it was nothing Hermione hadn’t already suspected about the pureblood students. “Well. Dinner then?”

X

Dinner was an absolute catastrophe, in Hermione’s humble opinion.

It had started off innocently enough, though more formal than what Hermione was used to. Two-thirds of the Golden trio followed Draco back down the immense staircase to a door opposite the drawing-room. The ‘Dining Hall’ was large, and the table in the middle could have fit twenty people comfortably. The three of them took seats around one end of the table, with Hermione on the opposite side of Harry and Draco. The seat at the head of the table remained empty.

Quickly, two house-elves appeared and began to serve a mouth-watering dinner. Hermione managed to hold back on the lecture that threatened to pour out of her mouth at first sight when she saw that the house-elves were wearing well-made clothes; they even looked healthier than many of the elves she’d seen in the Hogwarts kitchens.

Narcissa joined them soon after all the dishes were placed on the table. It was a veritable feast.

Hermione thought the woman would take the seat at the end of the table, but Narcissa surprised her by passing over the empty chair entirely. The blonde came up on Hermione’s right, sitting herself down gracefully across from her son.

Hermione fought to ease the tension in her spine.

The four ate in silence for a few minutes before Draco managed to cut the tension with Quidditch talk. Somehow, Hermione managed to befriend _another_ Quidditch-head.

“I still don’t understand how you all manage to stay on your brooms when you’re flying that fast,” Hermione grumbled.

“Hermione,” Harry shook his head fondly, “We’ve talked about this. I can teach you how to fly properly at any time. Just let me know.”

“I think I prefer to keep my feet on the ground, actually.”

“Not a fan of Quidditch, Ms. Granger?” Narcissa spoke for the first time, and Hermione’s shoulders twitched.

“It’s—” she swallowed, “It’s not that I’m not a fan of Quidditch. To be perfectly honest, the sport can be incredibly entertaining to watch.”

“Heights, then?” The blonde questioned.

“More the idea of falling from said heights,” Hermione sighed, “It can’t be safe. There’re no sticking charms to hold you in place, as far as I’m aware. There’s no net to catch you if you fall. Do you have any idea how many Quidditch players fall off their brooms?” She aimed the question at her dark-haired friend. “_All of them._ All of them, Harry.”

Draco laughed, “I’d forgotten about third year. That was a wicked fall, Harry.”

“But that wasn’t my fault! Dementors were flying above the pitch.” Harry defended.

“A good excuse.” Draco drawled.

“It’s not an _excuse_. It’s an illegal interference. There should’ve been a rematch.”

As the boys continued to argue, Hermione watched on with amusement that dropped off sharply when a warm hand settled on her thigh.

“Should you ever wish to learn the joys of flying in a less dangerous context, I would be happy to show you, Ms. Granger,” Narcissa spoke lowly, having leaned in closer to Hermione to not interrupt the boys.

Hermione shivered. The warmth of breath against her ear and the hand that rested lightly on her leg stirred something within her. It was like someone had shot her full of adrenaline with no warning. Her entire body buzzed with it, and she worried she might be shaking.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Malfoy. I might take you up on that.” Hermione’s own voice was mostly steady, thankfully, but it was even quieter than Narcissa’s to the point that she was whispering.

The blonde leaned closer, probably trying to hear her.

“It would be my pleasure.” That time, Hermione couldn’t help but blush. She glanced at Harry and Draco, but both boys were oblivious to the second conversation happening in front of them. “And please, dear, call me Narcissa.”

“If I call you Narcissa, you’ll have to call me Hermione.” She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of self-control as she felt like it was slipping through her fingers. That hand never left her thigh, and the longer it remained, the more intense the tingling in her veins got. “Only my professors call me Ms. Granger.”

“Very well, _Hermione._” Narcissa practically _purred._

Hermione gulped; her eyes were bound helplessly to the blue ones so close to her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what would come out but hoping against hope that it wasn’t something too embarrassing.

A door slammed, sending a jolt through her and causing Narcissa to lean back into her chair, withdrawing her hand to Hermione’s…relief? Regret?

It didn’t much matter. She didn’t have time to think it over.

Lucius Malfoy had arrived for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the updates slow a bit. Depression's a nasty bitch and won't let up, but I refuse to abandon this fic


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